and the light is slipping through our hands
by Unfortunate Fates
Summary: A boy, a girl, a high school experience so complicated it should come with a map, and a sense that maybe, in the end, things will turn out okay.  This is their story.


**A/N: You guys. This is it. This has been the product of months upon months writing like crazy. It's incredibly long (the longest oneshot I've ever written by around 200%) and it's been quite a ride. I still can't believe I finally finished it. It's surreal to finally be posting, and I'm unbelievab;y excited to see what people think. Honestly, I haven't gotten much feedback for other pieces I've written, but anything I get on this would be amazing. **

**Here's the scoop: Puck and Quinn have clearly met before sophomore year. The question is, when? This is my take on everything they could've been and everything they should be, stretching all the way to senior year (and implying beyond). Maybe you never liked them. Maybe you're a Puckleberry or Fabrevans fan. I just hope you're open to trying the story (and the pairing) on for a few minutes. **

**Disclaimer: The beautiful, complex characters in the television show Glee belong to RIB and Fox, not me. I make no profit from this other than the ability to share with lovely readers like yourselves.**

...

The first time he ever sees her he's awkward and gangly but he's been around enough girls to know his way around. It's the summer before freshman year and the sun is shining so brightly it's like his eyes will burn. He stares at it anyways, if only to prove to himself that he can.

Somehow he ends up in the library for some prank his friends were planning, and he's never been here before (because seriously? a library?). He has to at least scope the place out. The whole building is bigger than he expected, and the librarian glares at him through tiny glasses that shouldn't scare him as much as they do. It's kinda musty and quiet, and all of that together makes it seem really creepy. He keeps looking, peeking behind a shelf on the far side when he sees a girl.

She's sitting in a corner, a book resting idly in her hands. Her nails are painted a soft pink, and when he thinks back years from now that's what he'll remember: the hair that should look like straw but seems more like honey and the short, clipped, blushing fingernails. He wants to go up to her and say something clever paired with a smirk, but his mind is running a blank because she's different, he knows it, he just doesn't know how.

Her expression is soft and sweet, the ghost of a smile threatening the corners of her lips, and her eyes are sharp and alert but there's something hidden behind the darting motion meant to catch the words as they skip across the pages. He decides then and there to walk over to the corner, to a girl he's never even heard of, and strike up a conversation that's doomed to failure before it even begins.

But before he can even take a step she's folding a page carefully and picking up her bag, disappearing with grace that can only come naturally. It's the first time he's ever cared about learning a girl's name before her relationship status.

…

The second time he sees her she's wearing a uniform and he can't help but wonder what happened to the girl with the soft smile and mysterious eyes. He hears _head cheerleader_ and _popular_ and it's freshman year, so he might as well introduce himself. They'll be in the same social ring, anyways. He's also curious to see what she's really like. He's never wondered (obsessed is too strong a word) about a girl this much without wondering what it'd be like to make out with her. (It's perfectly logical to want to talk to her, right?)

"Hello," she says slowly, cautiously, as he ambles towards her with his hands stuck deep in his pockets. Her eyes are sharp and quick as they dart across his body, scanning him and apparently deeming him acceptable if the approving set of her jaw is any indication. Her posse flits off, laughing at pitches that shouldn't be humanly possible. A few look at him, and he might check them out, but his attention is on the girl in front of him, standing with her hands perched defensively on her hips.

"Hey. I'm Puck."

"Quinn," she tells him, and he's confused at first; she seemed like she could be a Kelly or an Ashley or a Chloe. But at the same time, he's not surprised that he's surprised, at least, not when it comes to her. She sticks out a hand daintily, professionally, and he rolls his eyes while taking it. Her grip is stronger than he expected.

"Quinn," he repeats, just to feel it on his lips. "You a freshman?"

She nods, frowning at an errant strand of hair peeking out of her ponytail.

"Me, too. I'm on the football team." He doesn't know why he wants her to know this, but he does.

"Congratulations," she tells him, but he isn't sure how sincere she is. He shrugs it off, asking something generic about sports and whether she ever watches football, just to hear her talk again.

"Yes." She looks a bit concerned, finally looking down at her watch. "Well, I have to go, if I'm not on time to practice Coach will kill me. And laugh while she does it." She sighs softly, the sweet summery sound carried by the light breeze, and she turns to the gymnasium. "It was nice meeting you, Puck."

Hearing his name in her voice shouldn't make his heart skip a beat (he's not a girl, okay?).

When it does, he's worried. She's different. He actually wants to get to know her. There are actually feelings mixed in with the physical attraction, and Puck isn't good with feelings.

This can't end well.

...

He sees her again the next day, ponytail high and swishing behind her like a pendulum as she struts down the halls. Her confidence is startling, refreshing. He nearly waves as they pass each other on the way to math, but decides against it at the last second.

What he doesn't expect is a curt, businesslike nod and a smirk, his racing heart, or falling for the girl his best friend is head over heels in love with.

…

He talks to Quinn more and more over freshman year, drinking in every fact he can learn about her. She's two people, that much he knows, because every time he sees a comment on Berry's MySpace from her (not that Berry isn't weird, because she totally is), he thinks of the girl in the library. The girl with the soft smile and soft hair. The girl he wants to meet.

He'll find her. He swears. He just needs a little more time.

…

Sometimes, she slips, sunlight shining through the cracks in her ice-blue composure. She'll tell him he's sweet and he'll laugh it off, both of them pretending they aren't crossing the hastily drawn line between friendship and something else, something deadly and dangerous that neither of them is prepared to deal with. And through all of the mystery surrounding her, he's become a different person, too. He starts to lead a double life, and at first it's terrifying, the effect she has on him. Eventually, though, he finds that it's not terrifying, it's exhilarating. He can finally be the guy he always wanted to be. And he can do it with her.

…

"I always thought you were kind of a jerk, like those guys who used to throw people in dumpsters and toss slushies and throw eggs and all of that awful stuff. You just seemed like the type."

He swallows painfully, avoiding her gaze. "I'm not," he tells her with a little more force than the conversation requires. _Not anymore._

She smiles in that crooked way of hers, letting one side of her mouth lift up just the slightest bit more than the other. His world lifts with it; reality shifting until her crooked is his normal, and falling back into place hurts more than it should.

"I know. You're a good guy, Puck. I'm glad we're friends."

…

Some nights he'll lock the door to his room and call her, letting her voice wash over him like sunlight on his skin. They share secrets easily, fluidly, bouncing from one topic to the next with such speed that the conversation should become stilted, or convoluted, but they understand it all.

They talk as if they've known each other forever, neither of them letting time stand in their way. Their tones are conspiratorial, and when they act like they're far, far closer than they really are, neither acknowledges it. They're excellent with denial.

It shouldn't work.

Somehow, _somehow_, it does.

…

He's never felt lighter than that fateful (magical) night, when she had one or two wine coolers that she must have thought were punch and she said something about her weight, but he told her she was beautiful. She'd hit him and yelled at him and he'd just taken it, trying to hide the awe and fear behind a mask of indifference. This Quinn wasn't the one he knew. This Quinn was fiercer, more impulsive, more vulnerable. She was enthralling.

When he wakes up, she's still sleeping, and he'll never tell her but before he leaves he plants a kiss on her forehead, lips lingering as he takes it all in. The light is streaming through the window and her eyes are shut, lashes brushing her cheeks. Her mouth is set in a lazy half-smile and this is what he wants, a future where he can wake up to her every morning because this feels right.

He wants it. He wants it _so much_.

…

He steps aside, but not quietly. She knows him, and that's what's killing him. She knows him better than anyone else ever has and she still thinks that Finn would be a better father. She knows him and she still doesn't want him. She brushed him aside with a flick of the wrist, but if he squints she could be waving. It doesn't last long enough for him to tell if it's a hello or a goodbye.

It hurts. It aches. He sees her walking down the hall with her hand in his and he knows that every second she shares with Finn is a lie. He wants to go to his friend and say _don't trust her, she's evil, she'll break your heart,_ but bros before hoes flew out the window when he made the worst decision of his life. (It was also the best decision of his life, but he can't admit that. Not with the way things are).

He hates her, anger dark and silent and all the more deadly for it. He hates that somehow when she smiles he still feels like he's basking in the glow and he hates that it's Finn (dumb, obtuse, oblivious Finn) that can make that happen. He hates that just one curve of the lips can bring him back to the library all over again.

He didn't know her then, but whenever he thinks of the girl he loves it's the girl sitting in the corner with the honey hair and sweet smile and mysterious eyes, always a second out of reach.

…

The pregnancy is hard, but it makes things so much easier for him. When she finally tells him she's giving Beth up for adoption, it doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would.

It terrifies him.

…

She's gone. He'll never get to know her, this girl who's half him and half Quinn. This girl who will undoubtedly have green eyes and blonde hair and be careful with her feelings but not with her heart. In the rare occurrences in which she falls in love, she'll fall too hard and she'll fall too fast, and she'll be in denial about it the entire time.

It's funny, though, because every time he thinks of Beth he sees a smaller version of the girl at the library, sweet and quiet and soft around the edges. He hopes she has Quinn's voice.

But above all, he hopes that she's smarter than he ever was to think that he and Quinn would somehow, _somehow_ work.

…

"Yes. Especially now."

He's never been more vulnerable. He's never felt more scared. He's never been more of a man.

Yes, he thinks, it was worth it to tell her, even if she isn't ready. Even if she doesn't feel the same. It was worth it.

…

Girls like her aren't supposed to notice guys like him. It's a fact. But when summer rolls around again he lets himself hope, just for a moment, that this one can be like the last. He dreams about sitting under the tree in his front yard sipping lemonade at night, and when the fireflies come out he thinks that he'd like to catch one in a jar for her.

As soon as the thought appears he smirks to himself half-heartedly. She's never needed anything to shine. She does it on her own.

…

He's losing her: the sunlight girl who still, after everything, dances in his dreams and laughs and sends his heart beating so fast he swears it could be a bomb ticking away the minutes of their life as _Puck and Quinn_.

She's slipping through his hands and there's nothing he can do; he feels like glass, substantial but not substantial _enough_ because she's sliding right through him. She's leaving as if there's nothing wrong, but she doesn't understand how wrong everything is. If he loses her, he'll lose his future but keep the rest.

Because once she's gone he knows he'll desperately miss the girl in the library he never got to meet. He'll miss her as if she were a piece of him, ripped away suddenly, the loss stinging like a million poisoned barbs. He doesn't want to lose this girl who changed him deeply.

Even if he loses her, he'll never forget her. He swears. He doesn't even know if she's out there, but he swears that if she's really, truly gone he'll never let her memory die.

…

That night he dreams of a ballroom with spinning, twirling wraiths of smoke. He hears golden laughter and tinkling voices mingling with a feeling of warmth on his skin. He doesn't know where he is, but he sudden;y he doesn't care because he sees her in the middle of it, book bag on her shoulder, beaming.

None of it matters anymore. She's here. So is he. He walks towards her and holds out his hand, inhibitions lifting off of him like steam from boiling water.

"Would you like to dance?"

She smiles widely (and it's real this time. It's real and awkward and too big but it's _real)_, taking it, and for the rest of the dream they glide effortlessly, smiles so bright they _hurt_ and emotions too overwhelming to care.

…

He's terrified. He knows he's digging a hole too deep to climb out of, but isn't that what people do when they're in love? Even if it's with the wrong girl?

_It should be dark down here_, he thinks.

…

The summer moves on slowly, so slowly. After the last day of school things had seemed promising with Quinn.

He should've known better than to hope. He should've known better than to think she'd ever change (or ever stop changing, depending on how you look at it).

"I need to be on my own for a while. There's a lot of stuff in my life I need to sort through, and I'm going to need space." They're sitting in the shade of the oak tree in his front yard, safe from the unbearable blanket of humid air for just a moment.

"Are you…breaking up with me?" he asks, confusion and disbelief coloring his voice. It's the only way he can think of to put it, and it sounds idiotic even to him. They've never fit into a neat little box (dating, not-dating, love, hatred; it's all the same in the end).

"I just need space," she answers, but it doesn't really seem like an answer at all. She pushes herself up with one arm, manicured fingers digging into the soil, and pulls her purse onto her shoulder. She turns to leave, but before she does she plants a small kiss on his cheek.

A whispered goodbye is all he gets before she's gone, vanishing into the summer air and scorching heat and blinding light like she belonged there all along.

…

He sees her everywhere. When he drives by the school his heart pangs uncomfortably, when he goes to his living room he can hear her phantom laughter, tinkling like bells. But the worst by far is the library, cool and dry and quiet.

Because on his fourth visit that summer (his mom is thrilled he's taken a liking to reading), it isn't some false version of her anymore. It's Quinn. She's actually there.

This time, he doesn't hesitate.

"Hey."

"I didn't know you could read," is her reply, light and airy, and she's smiling into the sound as if hearing her voice isn't tearing him apart.

"I think I'm allergic. I try to avoid this place, but I didn't really have a choice." The words are out before he can stop them and he cringes internally, hoping she has no idea what he's talking about.

"Did your mom send you?" Her smile is knowing.

"Something like that," he tells her, because he never could lie to those eyes. "Why are _you_ reading? It's summer, remember?"

She laughs quietly, eyes dancing. "I read because I like to."

He stares at her blankly. The concept is a foreign one. "That's weird, Fabray."

"At least I'm literate," she shoots back, a smile threatening her lips, and here she is, the girl in the library. She's been waiting for him all this time.

He's caught off guard for a moment, that expression forcing him to stop, calm down, relax. This is _Quinn_, not a stranger. Yet, his heart is beating as if she is.

"Whatever, nerd," he decides to say, palms sweating in his pockets where he's shoved them. It's a habit he picked up from when he was smaller, a nervous tick he's never managed to quell. He's been doing it more and more often as of late. Resolutely, he pretends he has no idea why.

"So how has your summer been?" An angry librarian glares at them from behind a pair of seriously creepy spectacles at her volume. He juts his chin out towards the back door in a manner that should seem confident, but to him it feels arrogant and wrong (and the worst part is he knows he'd never take it back).

She complies easily, swinging that bag over her shoulder and it's exactly like he remembered it, that bag a pendulum on her arm keeping his time from slipping too fast the way she always has. The leather on the strap is worn down and the buckle is too big, and for some reason when he sees it he can imagine her with glasses and a too-bright smile, young and unabashed and _different_, but as soon as it appears the image is gone, twirling yellow in the dust motes illuminated by the late afternoon heat.

Once they get outside he relaxes, the warmth feeling divine after the coolness of the air conditioning. The tension starts to drain from him, tight muscles loosening in the light.

"So? Your summer?" she asks again politely. He pretends that the curiosity is real.

"Lame. Yours?" There's no point in lying to make himself look awesome; he has a feeling that their definitions of 'cool' don't quite match up anyways.

"It's been…interesting." Her tone is one he's familiarized himself with, the hesitance and hint of something more behind otherwise perfectly casual statements. If he asked her right now if something was wrong, she'd shut down. Befriending Quinn (friend-he _hates_ that word, he _hates_ it) has taught him patience, if nothing else.

After a short pause she continues like he knew she would. "Just different, I guess. I always came to the library to get away from home, with my parents being the way they were. Now, it's just weird. Different family, different house, different friends, but it's always been the same place." She smiles a bit self-consciously, and it's obvious that she hadn't planned on revealing quite so much, especially to him.

He nods thoughtfully. "Yeah. But you could've picked a cooler place than the public library." All it takes is one careful comment and she's laughing, the sound flowing over him like liquid. He cracks a smile too. The sound of her joy is refreshing, something he didn't know he missed until it came back and hit him full force.

"I could've. But I bet you didn't even know this place existed until today," she smirks, eyes lighting up mischievously.

"Actually…" he starts, but changes his mind at the last second, "yeah, you're right. It's weird here." He doesn't know why, but there's something about her that makes everything backwards until up is down and down is up and nothing makes sense anymore. And for some reason, he just can't get enough.

…

His inbox reads _1 unread message, _but he isn't sure if he wants to open it. It's from Shelby and there's an attachment. The subject says 'Beth.' That's it. Just Beth.

He ignores it, hoping and hoping and hoping that she'll understand.

...

School starts again, and the email is in the back of his mind, not quite lurking but close enough to make him nervous. The only class they share is glee, and he isn't sure why he's even taking it again. He likes to sing, but there aren't many people he relates to and he could be doing so many things with the time it takes up. He guesses it's just one of those things that sucks you in until you can't let go, not even if you want to.

He figures he needs to talk to her eventually; he isn't dense enough to pretend that that day at the library was enough to really change things. She needed space. She still does. He's trying to prove he's good enough for her, and giving her what she wants seems to be the right thing to start with.

He's confused and lost and a little scared, but he's also determined to find out who she really is.

All he needs is a little luck and a lot more time than he currently has.

…

Friday night, the call finally comes. He lets it ring three times before answering, feeling the vibrations shoot through his arm and straight to his stomach, settling into an uncomfortable pit.

"Sup?" he asks, letting a hint of arrogance seep into his voice. He'd rather light himself on fire than let her know how nervous he really is.

"Did you get the pictures?" she asks without preamble, tone urgent.

"What pictures?" he asks, feigning ignorance.

"The ones of Beth. From Shelby? Have you looked at them yet?"

"…No." He should've. He knows it; he really should have just opened the email. But he couldn't.

"Well, do you have a computer handy? She's beautiful." The awe in her voice is so tangible he can't help but feel an ounce of excitement, even as he hates her for it.

"Beth is _gone_," he blurts. "She isn't ours anymore. Why do you even care?" _No, this isn't right. I'm such a coward._

"She's always been ours. Why _don't_ you care? How can you not care? We're her parents, Puck. You're such a _jerk," _she replies, venomous. The casual insult is far more painful than it normally is.

He doesn't respond. It _hurts_ to care, okay? It hurts and he's sick of being an emotional wreck because of her. She's like a drug. Every time he sees her he's hurting himself but there's no way he'll ever stop on his own.

When she speaks again, she sounds much more collected, and her voice is colder. "I guess you aren't looking at the pictures, then. But do you remember when you said you didn't want to turn out like your father? I hope you don't miss your chance, Puck."

She waits another half-second to hang up. The dial tone sounds like goodbye.

…

He can't do this. He can't get involved with Beth's life right now. He doesn't want her to ask questions or get confused or any of that crap, but he's not good enough for her. He knows it. He can't just waltz back into her life the way things are. His grades have been steadily tanking since second grade and he's never really had a steady father figure in his life so how could he even dream of being…he just _can't_, okay? He just can't. He's a terrible example, a terrible influence, a terrible everything.

He can't be selfish. He can't try to be with her because he wants to. He can't ruin her life the way his dad ruined his. He can't give Beth a taste of a father then rip it away when he gets sent to jail for some crime he's sure he'll never really commit.

He can't do this.

…

It's his mom, in the end, who makes his decision.

"Noah, this is your chance to go back and make things right. Keep your past out of your future."

He looks at her, sees the worry lines and laugh lines wrinkling the corners of her eyes, sees his childhood. He can't do this to Beth, he knows. But was he ever right about what _this_ is?

…

He opens the pictures. There are five in all, one of her first birthday and another of her and Shelby. She bears a striking resemblance to Quinn, he thinks, and it's strange. Because when he looks closer, he sees a little bit of himself in the set of her little jaw and the slope of her nose and her wide, dopey smile. He studies them feverishly, breath catching in his throat at the impossibility of it all. It can't be real. Not after all this time.

That night he doesn't fall asleep, instead lying awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering how everything feels so horrible when he knew he'd screw it up all along anyways.

Hope kills. He should've known.

Instead, he was naïve. _Never again, _he promises to himself.

…

Finally, he decides he can't take this anymore. He knows that if he talks to her he'll make things worse, he'll manage to make things even more complicated than they already are, and he can't afford to do that.

_Quinn,_ he writes, because using _Dear_ is for chicks and old people.

_I know I suck with words and feelings and all that, but I have a lot of things I have to say to you. First, I'm sorry. When you started talking about Beth I freaked out, cuz it's just really hard to think about. I always wanted to be a part of her life, but I think I didn't know what to do about it until we talked. I'm not my dad, Quinn, I swear. I won't be. I didn't know what to do when I first got the pictures. I really, really didn't want to screw everything up, but I finally decided I needed to get my act together and be involved in Beth's life the way I should be. I'm manning up._

_So I'm going to visit Beth and Shelby in two weeks. If you want to come, let me know. I really want to be part of her life, and I think you should, too. She deserves it._

He types _Love,_ then deletes it, face burning. No way is he letting her see that.

_-Puck_

When he hits send, he thinks he might be hyperventilating. The scary part is that he can't really tell.

…

He gets a reply in his inbox within 24 hours. His heart stops when he sees the sender.

_Puck,_

_I'm going to need a little more time to figure out what I want to do. I want to see her with you, I really do. I'm just not sure if I'm ready. I gave her up; it was my choice. I guess we're both a little confused. You're a great guy, Puck, you really are. I just don't know if we'll ever work out._

_-Quinn_

…

_Great guy. Don't know. Ever work out. _The words are rushing, spinning through his head until they cease to make sense anymore.

He hasn't felt this helpless in a long time.

…

She says: _Maybe we just weren't meant to be._

And: _I hate it, but every once in a while things just don't work out, okay?_

And: _Sometimes you just have to lay your heart out there. If it gets broken, well, that's how you know you still have one._

He wants to yell and rant and tell her every single thing he's thinking right now, but it's all too much. He feels like he's stuck somewhere he never asked to be, not really with this girl but too close to her, far too close to her.

He doesn't know _what_ they are anymore. Friends, lovers, enemies, acquaintances; anything would be better than this.

…

He says: _Quinn, just listen to me for once_

And: _Slow down for _one_ minute, _please

And: _I know I have a heart because I loved you, okay?_

He's met with silence. He doesn't fully register his last words until he sees her eyes, the way she looks so confused and angry with him, somehow. He shifts uncomfortably under her gaze, but doesn't waver. It's the truth. She deserves to know.

"Do you still?" she asks, and it's a whisper, full of hope and fury and confusion. It's a confliction, and the tears in her eyes give him the courage to hand over his heart.

"I never stopped."

When she steps forward he honestly thinks she's going to slap him. He shuts his eyes and prepares for impact, deciding to remain absolutely stoic. What he doesn't expect is what really happens.

"It's not that easy," she murmurs, face inches from his.

"I don't care," he tells her, pressing his lips against hers and muffling her unsurprised gasp. Maybe things won't work out in the end for them. Maybe they never had a chance. But that won't stop them from savoring this moment. They'll take what they can get.

…

She was right. It's _not_ that easy. It's nearly impossible to try to create something different from whatever they had. They'd tiptoed around each other and watched from both afar and way too close and now that something is actually, finally happening they have absolutely no idea what to do.

Maybe that's the way they've always been, though. It's never been easy for them and it never will be. The word 'normal' has never really been included in either of their vocabularies. (And maybe that isn't such a bad thing after all).

He's so confused, because everything was supposed to turn out exactly the way he always dreamed. And he knows she was dreaming the same things, but nothing is right.

He remembers a time last year, when he thought that with her, everything up was down and everything down was up, and none of it made sense anymore.

He thought that now, things would be different.

…

On their first day as an actual couple (he still thinks it's ridiculous to be referred to as one, considering all they've been through), he's nervous. His hands are shaking slightly and his heart is beating, reminding him that even with as much experience as he claims to have, this is still the first time he's ever been with a girl like this.

It's the first time he's ever put someone else ahead of himself.

…

It shouldn't feel like freedom.

It does.

…

Time picks up its feet, and before long his life is gliding, flying along. There aren't enough moments in every day anymore, not for them. A week passes in the span of an hour and the sun never sets. He smiles more and more, smirks turning to beams and glares evaporating. People point and whisper, but he couldn't care much less.

Because the next day, when he goes to see Shelby, Quinn is there, swaying on her feet nervously, as if the light breeze will pick her up and whisk her high, high into the smooth white clouds. The expression on her wind-bitten lips tells him that she really wouldn't mind so much if that happened after all.

"You came," he says, and he can't stop the stupid grin that spreads cross his face.

"I'd never forgive myself if I didn't."

He knows the feeling.

They stand outside for a few minutes, letting the memories and hopes stagnate a little while longer in their minds, perfect pictures that will no doubt be shattered in seconds. Never again will Beth be as pure as she is now. Never again will she be perfect, an angel in the body of a child. (She's not an angel; how could she be when her parents are as broken as they are?)

With a sigh, he takes her hand, warm and soft in his like the memory of summers past, and they walk carefully to the door. The breeze is too icy, and the dew is seeping into their socks, and Shelby watched their whole exchange through the window; it's so, so far from perfect, but Puck can't think of one reason why this moment shouldn't last forever.

…

She doesn't even pretend she wasn't watching, which Puck is thankful for. It's one of the reasons he always liked Shelby (even if he doesn't know her very well): she'll tell you what other people are afraid to, and she'll do it with a smile on her overused show-face.

The door is opened before they reach it. "Puck, Quinn, it's so great to see you. She's in the nursery but she should be awake."

"Thank you. Your house is beautiful."

And there goes Quinn making him look bad. Puck just nods, agreeing without really agreeing, because it's not that special as far as houses go. He figures Quinn's good enough at pleasantries to make up for his complete lack of social skills when interacting with the human species (minus teenage males, because he's got them down).

"Thanks, honey, I just had it redone for Beth."

The name brings a swelling in his chest that he didn't expect.

They walk, hand in hand, and the moment feels intimate in a startling way. He sees Quinn holding back tears out of the corner of his eye and wills himself to look away, ignore them; maybe they'll disappear of their own accord. He's never been good with tears, all awkward presence and should-I-hug-her and distances that are just an increment too far away. It's one of the reasons he's always hated himself. His sister will come home and cry over some stupid boy and he'll freeze up, rigid as the cold he's bracing himself against. Now, he feels like a statue.

"Here she is," says Shelby with a small, private smile, and Puck's world is shifted once again, realigning to face the beautiful, beautiful child sitting in front of him. It's surreal and perfect and heartbreaking; he isn't sure if he's ever felt this _much_ at once. As he looks at her, really looks at her, he realizes it's the first time he isn't trying to push her away.

He hears Quinn's gentle exhale beside him, coloring the air until the room feels calm, serene, and far less tense than it was before.

She's just under a year old, a small curl of gold resting atop deep green eyes bordering on hazel that are gazing up inquisitively. (He knows those eyes, he knows them, he _knows_ them). She looks exactly like Quinn, and he wasn't expecting this, wasn't expecting those eyes and that mouth and that hair. He thinks his breath might have caught in his throat. He's slipping, slipping, ground suddenly unstable beneath his trembling feet.

"Ma…?" asks Beth, and he sees a tear leak out of Quinn's wide, too-bright eyes. He feels one slipping (slipping) out of his own, and wills himself to hold it all together. He's never been good with tears.

"Hi baby," smiles Shelby. "This is Quinn and Noah. They're friends."

"Frens?" she parrots. Quinn lets out a sound halfway between a choke and a laugh. "Friends," she nods, still crying and still desperately trying not to, wiping at her face in a move that should seem angry; but the short, harsh motions are only to help her see more clearly the girl she gave up her life for.

He thinks she's never looked more ethereal, more untouchable, more out of his league. She's standing, an angel in suburban clothing, shaking beneath a halo of sadness and despair (and when he squints enough, he thinks he can see just a little bit of hope).

…

Quinn gushes and gushes and gushes over Beth, inhaling every second she can get with her greedily. She frets and coos and prods enough for the both of them, he thinks, as he stands off to the side and simply watches, watches half of the most important women in his life interact in a way he knows they should've had all along. It certainly isn't the first time he's ever dreamed of this future.

Suddenly, he notices Shelby's presence beside him. "Beautiful, isn't she?"

"Beautiful," Puck breathes, knowing that while Shelby's world is centered around this slight figure of a girl (and that Quinn's might very well be, too), he could never feel anything more than what he feels for the young woman beside her, drenched in sunlight even indoors on this cloudy day.

_Beautiful_, he thinks again. Funny. He's never thought of a girl that way before.

…

He walks her to her car on the way out. (Neither of them pays attention to the fact that his is sitting only about thirty feet to the left). She steps into the driver side, but the door is left open. She perches delicately, letting her legs swing daintily over the edge of the seat, not all the way in the car but not quite willing to be all the way outside of it, either.

The breeze that passes makes them both shiver, her swaying slightly, him rooted to the spot.

"Thank you," she says, "for this. I never thought I'd see her again."

"Wasn't me," he shrugs, "thank Shelby," because he doesn't know how to deal with her gratitude. With anyone else, Puck would soak it in and let his ego swell. Now, the thought of it alone makes him sick. He's better than that. (It's strange, thinking of himself as anything but a rebellious troublemaker, but he's grown up a hell of a lot in the past year and a half).

"I did. A lot," she smiles back, "but you started all of this. Just…thank you. I was so scared of giving her up that by the end of it I stopped thinking about Beth and just thought about myself. You never gave up on her, though."

"I never gave up on anyone," he tells her honestly (so honestly it hurts), and when he looks up from the ground her searchlight eyes are trained on his, bright and sharp and clear. He fights the dark blush he knows must be creeping up his neck.

She swallows, looks down, turns away. The sun peeks out from behind the clouds and casts a warm yellow glow that reflects off of the shiny white hood of her car and refracts, splitting into a crystal of warmth around him; yet, somehow, Puck feels like he's still standing in the dark, waiting for something that's already passed, never to touch him again.

…

Seeing the house slowly shrink in his rearview mirror aches somewhere deep in his chest. He flips on the speakers and taps the steering wheel to the beat of Neil Diamond (his mom planted several CDs in his car. He can't say he hates _all_ of them). He needs time to think, but right now all he wants to do is forget about everything and maybe, just maybe he can grab a drink somewhere and relax. He needs to calm himself down completely before he starts getting all sentimental and girly. He tries singing along, but has to settle for humming because his voice is shaking so much even _he_ can't look past it.

He tries to think back to a time when he didn't have to think or stress or dream or worry about Quinn or Beth or his future.

He isn't sure he can.

…

The weeks continue to fly. Dipping, gliding, soaring. Regionals come and go, and when he gets home that night he swears he can still hear twelve phantom voices cheering and shouting and _singing_ like they never have before. He can hear Berry and her prim _I always knew this would happen_ and Finn with his overjoyed _That rocked! _and he swears he can still hear Quinn's bright laugh, happiness overflowing into light through the blank white space as if it never left.

He'd put aside everything that night. He'd put aside his likes and dislikes and peeves and history until the whole group seemed shiny and new, like a copper penny landing heads-up, like a too-bright smile on a serious face. The Warblers without Kurt were no match for their infectious enthusiasm and lively dancing and if the duet between him and Quinn wasn't magical he doesn't know _what_ in hell the judges could've been thinking.

It was magic. Real, true, tangible magic. The kind you find in real life; the kind found in the salty tang of ocean air and the ringing gold of a pure, pure note.

He's never felt more alive.

…

Sometimes, days run together like ink on a page, smudging and blurring until you can't tell them apart. But some memories are exclusive, unforgettable.

He can tell they're making one now, as he speaks, because she's laughing that laugh and he's smiling that smile and he's thinking that maybe things will turn out fine.

"I love you," he says, because he can, and she doesn't respond, won't respond, never responds. "Just thought you should know. I don't, like, randomly say that to anyone." He's rambling, and usually he isn't the type, but when has time with Quinn ever been anything but unusual?

"I know," she agrees, nodding, brows furrowing as if she wants to take a chance, she wants to, but she knows she won't.

After a beat of silence that stretches until he can't see the end, she surprises the both of them.

"I love you too," she decides in a voice so small it's more of a breath, carried on the breeze so gently he thinks his heart is going to break right then and there; it's never felt so whole.

…

The faster the year progresses the more he realizes how little time they have. Junior year is nearly over, then senior year, and then…he doesn't know. She's leaving this town, he knows she is, but how can _he_? How can he leave behind his mom and little sister and all of the people he's ever truly loved?

He doesn't know. He doesn't know.

One day, he'll get out of here. He swears. He just needs to figure out how.

…

This is Puck and Quinn, sitting on a bench outside the school, waiting for the bus because his car broke down before they could make it even out of the late afternoon parking lot. This is Quinn's head resting against his shoulder, hair spilling onto his arm, eyes shut softly as the dim light from the lamp blurs the edges of their realities. This is Puck coming to the realization that for him, it's never been anyone but her (and there's a chance that it never will be, never). This is Puck seeing her clearly for the first time ever. He's seeing her manipulation and her evils and all of the hurt and pain locked inside of her. He's seeing the way she'll tear people down to raise herself up. This is Puck falling more and more in love with this broken girl with every passing second in spite of the darkness inside of her, _because_ of the darkness inside of her.

This is Puck, terrified, because he'll be left with nothing if they end; he'll be left with nothing _when_ they end. This is Puck realizing that one way or another, this girl will break his heart.

This is Puck realizing that, all things considered, that might actually be okay.

…

Once upon a time, there was a boy.

This boy was not a normal boy, you see. He tried. He tried _so hard_ to be someone worth loving, but somewhere along the road between childhood and growing up he lost something. He lost his spark. He turned to drugs and alcohol and pretty, nameless blurs whose faces he never could remember, and by doing so became another hatch mark in the wood, burned so dark he lost all hope.

And then. And then there came a girl. There came a girl who shook up his entire world. She stopped his heart and stole his breath and she's killing him, _she's killing him_, but he doesn't care because she's saving him, too. She's picking him up and dusting him off and telling him _you're worth it, you're a great guy,_ and no matter how much he wants to tell her she's wrong he can't lie to those beautiful eyes. There came a girl, this girl, and she taught him how to dream, how to love, how to _feel_.

Once upon a time there was a boy who grew up. But he couldn't have done it without _her_.

…

"Do you love me?" she asks him one lazy Friday evening, late into the spring days where the breeze is warm and the sky is clear and everything seems to slow down. "Really?"

His throat tightens unexpectedly, and he scowls at himself, because he shouldn't have to think about answering that question. Not now, not ever.

"'Course I do. You?" He's never been great with words, but with Quinn things feel easy, and as she slowly pours into him he can relax, relax, say what he needs to say.

Her smile is breathtaking, if the slightest bit brittle. "Of course I do."

Of course she does.

…

Graduation day will be remembered as a white-hot blur of finals and camera flashes and a song that was written the day before, in true New Directions form; but above all he'll remember the way she floated above them, soft and smiling and ready for her senior year in a way that none of them truly are.

Typically he'd just go home after bombing the finals he never studies for, but it's a small town, and graduation is always a big deal for the most populated high school in the area.

"Quinnie!" he hears her mom call, "Come here so I can get a picture!" She rolls her eyes good-naturedly, and makes her way over to the semi-opened space where the crowd has parted. Her smile is dazzling, and he can tell that she's truly happy. He's been seeing that smile more and more over the past few months, all joy and summer and spark that was never there before. Sure, he'd love to think that it's all because of him, but things have changed. For both of them. For everyone.

So when Mrs. Fabray-call-me-Judy waves him over to join them, he does it with a smile on his face.

…

"I can't believe we're seniors," she tells him on the first day of summer. They're at the Hudson-Hummel house, where the first party of what promises to be many is currently taking place. The sparks from the fire are jumping in the late evening haze and the glow is turning everything orange, and her cheeks are flushed; he honestly can't remember her ever looking more beautiful.

He wants to tell her all of this, wants to lay himself out where he can be vulnerable because this is what love is supposed to be. Instead, he nods. "It's weird."

Another spark jumps, and he thinks that on a night like tonight she could catch on fire, blazing and stunning, and no one would bat an eye. "It is. I never thought I'd actually like a guy like you." She smirks at his eye roll.

"And I never thought I'd actually get along with a princess like you." The way he says princess actually makes it sound like an insult; it's a skill he's proud of.

"Princess? Is this because I'm blonde?"

"Totally," he deadpans, and she nudges his shoulder in a way that screams of familiarity and playfulness and somehow it feels so _domestic_ that Puck can, for a moment, see the future; he can see a girl like Beth toddling around and he can see a white little picket fence and a dog and a mid-sized SUV that they'll both hate even though they know it's perfectly functional. (He knows they'll be different. He knows, yet he still dreams of the semblance of normalcy he always swore he could live without.)

Someone yells at him to grab his guitar, and the moment really should be broken but it isn't, not when the sparks are still flying and the night is still young and the people around him are still the people he loves. He starts to strum some random tunes until finally giving in to some requests. The entirety of the glee club sings until they're hoarse, and their voices are so purposefully off key he feels like he should be cringing.

In his opinion, it's the best they've ever sounded.

…

"Noah?" asks his sister randomly, two weeks into break. It's a lazy afternoon and he has football in an hour and she just got back from dance, and everything should feel hectic but instead it's languid and liquid and everything summer should be.

"Yeah?" He looks up from his X-Box.

"Are you and Quinn gonna get married someday?"

He swallows suddenly, caught off guard by both the question and the ease with which it had been asked. "I hope so." _If she'll have me. If we don't break up before college. If she doesn't finally realize what a loser I am._

"Me too. Quinn's pretty." He laughs at that, sound buoyant in the hazy air.

"Yeah," he smiles, "She's really pretty."

…

He calls her. Too often to be random, not often enough to be considered scheduled. They've always fallen in that in between place; they've always moved far too fast (but it's never been nearly fast _enough_).

The first few times he called, he always had a reason. Have you heard this? Have you seen this? Do you want to do this?

This time, he isn't even pretending he has an excuse.

"Hello?"

"Hi," he says, trying to will away the dopey smile spreading over his face. "'Sup?"

She sighs softly, a hint of exasperation forming an undercurrent to her careful cheery tone. "My mom is trying to enroll me in summer school."

"Summer school? But you're like, a freak genius or something," he reminds her incredulously.

"Thanks for that," she laughs, seemingly unsure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult. Her tone sobers almost instantly. "She thinks it'll help me get into college."

"So? Who cares about college?"

Her voice is soft, even a bit wistful, as she thinks forward. "Some people do, you know. Not everyone can be happy stuck in Lima forever."

The implication hits him a second too late. "I thought I was special and romantic," he quips, masking the hurt seeping into his veins with a heaping dose of irony.

"Wha-" she pauses, realization coming with her sudden halt. "I didn't mean-"

"I know," he tries. "And I know you're getting out of here, too, and I know I'm not. Doesn't mean it doesn't suck."

"What are we gonna do?" she asks tiredly, voice barely a whisper.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," he finally decides, only it isn't really a decision at all.

"Puck-"

"It's gonna be fine, okay? It's still the summer. Relax."

There's a beat of silence, tense and thin, until she relents. "Fine."

They talk for a few more strained minutes before he hangs up, happy that the issue's finally been dealt with.

(It hasn't. He knows it. But it's so much easier to pretend.)

…

He gets a part-time job as a lifeguard. She gets a part-time job as a salesperson in a shop at the mall (her mom changed her mind about summer school after Quinn had spoken to her about the types of boys who would be attending; he's never been so proud of her manipulative skills). He visits her often, but prefers it when she visits him. (So he's a sucker for the bikini, who could blame him?). It used to be hard for him, being exclusive in a relationship, especially when he can't see her all the time.

It comes as a surprise when he realizes how easy it is to be with her. But really, when he honestly thinks about it, it isn't a surprise at all.

…

"Do you have these in a medium?" he drawls, casually leaning against the counter where some t-shirts are stacked. She's fluttering around, folding some pants and looking over her shoulder to find him watching her.

"Those are women's," she giggles, leaning over to give him a quick peck on the cheek, "and shouldn't you be at work?"

"They let me off early for good behavior." At her incredulously raised eyebrow, he elaborates, "Well, that, and today was pretty slow."

She hums, the sound noncommittal, and turns back to the display, flipping some hair over her shoulder.

"Today's slow for us, too."

"Doesn't have to be," he winks, eyes roving, and she smacks him on the arm with a scandalized _Puck! We're in public! _while fingering the dainty silver cross around her neck. She can't hide the smile or the blush growing on her face, though.

They continue this easy banter until her manager sends her off to grab a delivery in the back. He gives her a quick goodbye and shoots off a winning smile before turning to amble in the other direction, towards the exit of the mall.

When he gets outside, he sees her in the distance by a white truck so big it could be confused for the North Pole. She flips her head over, gathers her hair into a tight ponytail, and picks up a box. He can't figure out why, but she looks older, wiser, more experienced. It should scare him. They're both awful with commitment; he knows that better than anyone. But all he can feel is a smile slowly spreading across his face as he imagines a future with her.

He can hear his mom's voice nagging at him. _You're seventeen, Noah. She isn't even Jewish! _

For the first time, he can hear his own reply.

_I don't care._

…

His life with Quinn isn't all rainbows and butterflies. He knew that when he signed up. Sometimes they fight, and Quinn's a yeller. She'll rant and storm and raise her voice so high it hurts and lower it so far she sounds terrifyingly deadly. She'll get in your face and wave her arms, and she'll cry. She's a whirlwind when she's angry, quick to throw the blame on other people. She can make you feel like a complete and utter idiot when she twists your words.

Puck, on the other hand, gets quiet. Very quiet. It's weird, he thinks, because Quinn was always the smart one, the mature one, the strong one. He just kind of hung on for the ride. When they fight, though, Quinn closes in on herself, shuts people out, and it's his job to calm her down and move on. He might blow his top every once in a while, but that isn't strange. He's blown it plenty before. He shoulders blame like it's his calling to do so, and he doesn't get physical in the fights that matter. Someone calls him a girl? He'll kick their ass. Someone tells him he's worthless? He'll tell them he's not. He never has been and he never will be. (It doesn't matter that he doesn't really believe it).

They use "I hate you" far too often for the words to carry weight. It doesn't lessen their sting, though.

When they fight, it hurts. But they move on and move forward. Perhaps not stronger, but different. They get to know each other that little bit more, and sometimes they like what they see. Other times they don't.

He feels like he should care more about their dynamic and the way it shifts, but it's so hard to follow that sometimes he just thinks, _screw it. She's beautiful, she's perfect, she's mine. I don't need anything else._

Most days, he believes it.

…

The annual back to school party is held at Santana's this year, mainly because she loves to party and any excuse seems good enough for her. Her parents are out of town this weekend (_the better question is when are they _not_ on some fancy business trip_, she laughs, as if it doesn't bother her in the slightest. But Puck knows Santana far too well to believe her lies. He hears the bitterness in her smile.) They trickle in, some people tanner, others thinner, others taller, but no one has changed all that drastically. For that, he's thankful. If he's going to depend on a Glee club of all things to keep him grounded, they might as well be reliable.

"You guys are still together? Damn, boy, that must be a new record for you!" crows Mercedes, a hand canted on her hip. She's one of the few that's totally unafraid of him. He isn't sure if he admires her for it or not.

"Yeah," he says distractedly, watching with interest as Finn and Blaine team up to grab Kurt and throw him into the pool. It's kind of like a twisted flashback, except in this situation, Kurt's laughing and spluttering and smiling as opposed to holding back tears because his million-dollar bag got a stain on it. Blaine jumps in after him with whoop that echoes over the sprawling backyard and the trance is broken.

He talks for a minute with Mercedes before she goes down to say hi to Tina, who just arrived. He can't even remember what they were talking about after a moment, and that fact itself really shouldn't be funny, but he laughs a little anyways because it's expected of him. She rolls her eyes and moves on, and it's the way things typically are. It just doesn't explain the pit in his stomach.

With a sigh, Puck walks over to the cooler where Finn and Mike are now standing. "Sup?" he asks with a tilt of his head. This is the language he's familiar with, all monotone, monosyllabic answers and minute movements that people actually understand. When Finn replies with a _Nothing much_ and Mike agrees, he knows that they actually mean _What's up with you? _He just shrugs.

"You still with Berry?" asks Puck casually, leaning back against the cool granite of the island while Mike leaves to grab some food. It attaches to the barbecue, which attaches to the mini fridge, which overlooks the pool, which overlooks the tiled patio. The Lopez family is pretty well off.

"Yup," replies Finn, but he actually means _I guess, sort of, barely._ "You and Quinn?"

"Yeah," he says, but his smile really tells Finn that they've never been better. It's a sad, bitter conversation, but you can't tell unless you know how to speak awkward-teenage-boys-who-have-known-each-other-forever. (emphasis on the awkward).

"Cool."

"Yeah."

_Finn! _Comes the overjoyed squeal from across the yard.

"Rachel's here."

"Yeah. I'm gonna go…"

"Yeah, okay."

He smirks as Finn warily watches Rachel approach, and Puck doesn't blame him when he sees the manic gleam in Berry's eyes. Rachel beckons, and Finn steps towards her slowly. When the taller boy finally reaches her he's tackled into what should be a hug, but instead looks like a wish, a hope, a promise. It's far too personal to be public, Puck thinks, but too public to really be personal. _I missed you,_ he sees Rachel whisper, and Finn's unconfident _I missed you too_ is almost lost in her beam. He can see the crazy determination in her eyes as clearly as he can see the way Finn towers over her. They're another pair, he thinks. Another inevitable pair. And in that moment, he feels closer to his best friend than he has his entire life.

"What're you thinking about?" asks a musical voice behind him, lilting up and back down in a breath that feels like liquid on his skin.

"Hey," he smiles, turning, letting his hands fall from where they'd been crossed around his chest. When he wraps his arms around her, it's familiar in the way she always was.

"Hey yourself," she says, giggling, and he can't get enough of that sound, that sunlight spilling across the air, that tone he never hears enough. No one hears it enough. It's low and throaty and uncontrolled, yet still it's somehow inherently _Quinn_ in a way he can't describe. He misses her laugh, and that makes no sense, but the second it silences he yearns for more.

"How was the benefit?" he inquires randomly, pulling from the conversation they'd had the other day.

She rolls her eyes, the light breeze catching her bangs as she does so, and her pointed silence speaks more than any _it was so boring/I hate my mom's friends/It wasn't worth the effort_ ever could.

He nods understandingly and slings an arm over her shoulder. She sidles up against him minutely, resting her head on his shoulder, and they stay like that until Brittany asks them if everyone's playing statues, pointing out various couples sitting or standing as stoically as they are. Long, draping shadows are cast across the yard when the clouds shift; everything is bathed in a deep, rich gold. Brittany scrunches her eyebrows. Quinn smiles.

"No, Britt. We're just comfortable like this."

…

They gather around the barbecue, every one of them grabbing a stool for themselves (with the exception of Rachel, who opts to sit on Finn's lap. He can see over her head easily, much to her chagrin). Quinn is to his left and the teetering couple is to his right, Rachel yammering about something or other across the table to Mercedes who rolls her eyes at Kurt who nudges Tina who bumps Mike who just smiles fondly before turning back to Artie and continuing their conversation about how annoying the Calculus summer work is. Puck smiles in spite of himself at the exchange, head moving to catch each individual action so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash in the process.

As a group, they've never been cohesive, or anything but dysfunctional, really. It makes sense that they wouldn't be, considering their backgrounds and personalities. What don't make sense are the times when they're on stage or rehearsing even, fitting together as if they were always supposed to happen the way they did. What's even stranger is when they end up choosing to spend time together outside of class or Glee, or when they have an actual good time without music or singing or Broadway. Those are the times he's most thankful for this family they've created. This family is what he depends on. He lives and breathes for this family who've grown so close that all dating feels incestuous yet dating outside of it…unthinkable.

It's strange. They're strange. Everything is strange.

Yet, somehow, it works better than any group based off of _similarities _or _non-clashing personalities_ ever, ever could.

…

They're holding hands when they walk into McKinley High on their first day as seniors. She's preening, birdlike with the other hand, smoothing her skirt and fixing her hair and waving at girls she used to be friends with. Her smile is fake and her warmth is faker, but that doesn't stop the other girls from smiling right back with too-cheerful_ 'how was your summer?'s_ and walking away before they can answer each other.

"If it isn't the local skank," sneers a pinch-faced senior Puck's never seen before. She's uniform clad, but her ponytail seems too tight, too harsh. He's about to tell her to back off of his girl when Quinn cuts in.

"Better a skank than a wannabe. By the way," she not-whispers conspiratorially, "that color is so wrong for your skin tone; you should just shave your head if you're picking shades like that. And those shoes? So last season."

Quinn gives her head one last pitying shake before turning back to her boyfriend. "Let's get out of here," she tells him, "She's not worth my time."

He'd feel bad at the sniffling behind them if it wasn't warranted. Sure, Quinn's less popular than she used to be, but that doesn't mean she isn't still in control. Losing her status never meant losing her snark.

It's not the first time she's terrified him.

…

They both walk to Glee without a second thought, neither drawing attention to the fact that the choir room sits on their radars, blinking, and probably always will. There are far too many memories here to give it up.

If he looks over at the hallway he can see the most bittersweet moment of his life: Quinn, tears in her eyes, shaking her head at Finn because the baby isn't his, was never his, will never be his.

If he turns to the open area in front of the risers he can see flashes, performance after performance after heart-wrenching, uplifting, passionate performance.

If he looks to the whiteboard, colors after colors spelling word after word after lesson after lesson pile on top of each other. Their history was there, once upon a time, he swears it was, all laid out clean and pretty in careful letters and lesson plans that never ended up right. That's probably for the best, though, considering the things they've been through and have yet to experience.

The New Directions never fit into a box. Puck, of all people, should know that.

…

"Welcome back, guys!" should've been the first words to come out of Mr. Schuester's mouth on the first day. Instead, he's faced with mayhem in the choir room and is forced to shout, "Everybody calm down!"

Really, he should've expected it.

…

The period really starts when Rachel walks in with an insanely short skirt and Finn's jaw drops to the floor. Puck smirks at the sight of his friend with such a glazed expression.

"I'd totally tap that if I wasn't with Quinn," he informs the still-out-of-it boy sitting next to him.

It takes about five extremely amusing seconds for the comment to process, and when it does realization spreads like a wildfire, burning Finn's cheeks and nose and ears and neck an unnatural pink.

"Dude! Seriously?"

"Seriously," Puck jokes gravely.

"Not cool, man. I should tell Quinn."

He chokes on his laugh. "Tell Quinn? What is she, my mother?"

"Excuse me?" asks a voice from behind him, and Puck turns slowly, recognizing it in a second yet holding on to a shred of hope that it wasn't her after all.

He's met with hands on her hips and an eyebrow cocked. Yeah, it was definitely her.

He gulps a little bit at her expression.

Finn gloats until Rachel turns around and finds him staring at her. She blushes to the tips of her ears, face coloring quickly as she tries to look stern but fails miserably. Dimly he can hear Santana yelling at Kurt about something and Mercedes trying to yell over her, and Tina seems to be singing something techno off in the corner, and Artie and Mike are standing over a handheld video game of some sort that's blaring Asian music; even above all of the chaos he can hear Quinn's soft voice turn deadly, and is about to blunder his way through either a) a sarcastic remark or b) an insincere apology (because really, he meant what he said) when Mr. Schue's voice cuts through the entire room on one fell swoop.

"Everybody calm down!"

And, for the first time in their entire history as a club, they do as they're told.

Within seconds Rachel's hand shoots into the air.

"Yes, Rachel?"

She shifts a bit in her seat, legs crossing primly before she begins. "Over the summer, I starred in a musical at the local community theater (I'm sure you're all aware, but just in case you weren't) and I felt very inspired by the glamorous design team that created the sets and costumes. I was thinking that for Sectionals this year, we should create our own designs for our outfits and perhaps incorporate handmade props. It would help us stand out and show the judges that we're more than our voices." She pointedly ignores the various eye rolls coming from scattered positions across the room; she's got plenty of practice in doing so.

"That's…an interesting proposition. You'll have to hold that thought until Sectionals actually start approaching, though."

She butts in immediately. "It's never too early to-"

"So," he booms over her frantic correction, his own tone bordering on desperate because it's clear that this isn't anywhere near what he'd planned for today, "who's excited for this year?"

The silence is deafening.

…

It hits him two weeks later, when senior year is really starting up and Quinn is working like a madwoman on college apps; all of her spare time is spent editing and writing and running around trying to get letters of recommendation from teachers she hated. It's enough to freak him out, because they have no time. This year will pass in the blink of an eye and then where will they be?

He can't go back the way things were before her. He doesn't think that people understand how serious things are because he _can't_. He can't go back to the times when girls were disposable and stealing was just a simple equation of borrowing plus forgetting to return. He's not that guy anymore. He won't let himself be that guy anymore. He hates who he was; he despises that guy who honestly thought he was above everyone else. He hates him. And now that he has a chance to make a change, who is he to turn it down?

With a frustrated grunt, he plops unceremoniously into his desk chair, typing 'community colleges' into the search box. He might as well start somewhere.

Even if somewhere means another four years of school he hadn't planned for, tuition he can't afford, and an experience he never wanted in the first place. None of that matters, though.

Because somewhere means Quinn.

…

"Where do you want to go?"

She sighs, the sound hazel in the warm breeze. "Georgetown is my first pick, but I also applied to Columbia because of my legacy and NYU because New York is incredible." She smiles, and the far-out look in her eyes is one he's familiarized himself with through the likes of Hummel and Berry. It's full of awe and a dream and he's so in love with this girl it hurts.

There's a moment, a pregnant pause that is bursting at the seams and he wants to ask her, needs to ask her. He's terrified and he isn't sure what her reaction will be but if he doesn't say this now he'll never forgive himself.

His demeanor is hushed, less confident than his statements usually are, and there's a voice in his head whispering _you idiot, you'll ruin everything, you'll ruin-_ "What if I came with you?" he finally blurts, cheeks tingling from shame because he's never been good enough for this, never.

She doesn't understand at first, letting out a heavy breath that he can feel permeate the tension. "Puck, you can't just waltz into a school like Georgetown and suddenly go there. It-"

"No," he interrupts, "what if I went to a community college? Or I got work? I have some savings in the bank, maybe I could come with you. I can't just let you walk away again."

He sees it for a moment, that fragile hope flashing across her features that's instantly replaced with hardness where the planes of her face rise.

"We could do this," he tells her, confidence shaking but confident all the same. His words have to be fervent, persuasive, because if he loses her now, when he's so close to making something out of himself, when _they're_ so close to being something bigger than they are, he doesn't think he'll be able to handle it.

But she's shaking her head and her eyes are conflicted and there's something in the set of her jaw that makes him want her more than ever. He needs this girl, he needs her and he knows she needs him, and how are they supposed to move on without each other? How is he supposed to survive when every waking moment will be spent wishing for her?

Finally, her shakes get firmer. "We need to grow up, Puck. And if that means growing apart, it's what we'll do. But I can't stay behind for you, and I can't ask you to come with me wherever I end up. It's not fair to either of us."

"In case you haven't noticed, things have never really been fair for anyone around here. I. Don't. Care." He punctuates each word by locking his jaw, gritting out the sounds with an intensity that shouldn't belong to a high school student.

When she speaks again, it's soft and sad and she sounds older than she is. Her eyes fill but the tears don't spill out, not yet. He can see his reflection in the sunglasses sitting on the table between them. "This isn't a fairytale, Puck. We can't just expect everything to work out perfectly. This is real life," and the way she says it betrays her calm mask. She knows what it's like to hurt; she knows what it's like to hope and have everything ripped away.

Something stirs inside of him, and it's only when he looks back on this conversation months later that he'll identify it as the moment he finally got himself together.

…

"I'm coming," he says again, "I swear I'll find a way," but he means it less every time. With the way the economy is, jobs won't be easy to find if he moves away from the pool cleaning business he has set up. He'd follow her anywhere, _anywhere_, if he only could, but now that he's losing the chance to it's killing him inside; he always knew they would end, he always knew it, he knew it, but he never thought it would be out of necessity rather than choice.

It just makes it hurt more, knowing that this beautiful, fiery, golden girl who turned his life upside down can leave him without a backwards glance.

(No, that isn't fair to say. She'll look back. He just wishes he were strong enough to do the same.)

…

They won't be able to manage long distance, not with the way they've been living. He's at her house and she's at his more often than not, and when they're apart he misses her. He'll call her on those days, locking the door to his room in a way scarily reminiscent to freshman year when everything was new and exciting and bold; everything was fresh and colored with strokes of light that washed away the rest.

Nothing has really changed all that much, he thinks. At least, not the things that matter.

…

The week's theme is 'Perseverance,' and if that isn't just the timeliest lesson they've ever had you can call him Yankee freaking Doodle Dandy. Mr. Schue is all tired smiles that are too bright and big, enthusiastic hand gestures and Puck just wants to bang his head against the wall because he can't bring himself to care about singing when all he wants is Quinn.

He catches her eye and her lips curve up ironically, still crooked in that breathtaking way, but here eyes aren't in it, her heart isn't in it. Quinn, for all of her cryptic emotions and veiled layers (she doesn't wear her heart on her sleeve; her heart is tucked away behind walls upon walls upon walls) is easier for him to read than most people are. He _gets _her on a basic, elemental level. He understands her desires because his are right in line. He understands her, and losing her is terrifying, because who else will see the things he does? Who else will appreciate her and want her and love her the way he does? He'll never be good enough for her, and he knows it (he knows it), but all things considered, who could be better?

_Who?_ He wants to shout, to ask anyone, because he just doesn't get it. They aren't good enough together, they're not, and _he knows it_, okay? He gets it. He gets that he'll never be good enough, but is it so bad if he doesn't care? If he wants to snatch up what he can get and run, never slowing or looking back because losing her would literally kill him?

Maybe, maybe it is. Maybe it's horrible. Maybe he's a horrible person. But Quinn begs to differ. And that's good enough for him.

…

He's pretty sure the entire town of Lima can hear her when she squeals, holding up the letter, and there's the smile he's been looking for lately (the one that's too wide and shows her bottom teeth: his favorite one); it's spread across her face and her laugh is infectious and he's picking her up and spinning around before he even realizes what he's doing.

"I got in," she breathes, eyes wide, voice trembling, "I got in. I can't believe it. I got in!"

"'M not surprised," he tells her, and he's just so _proud_ of her. She's been through so much and she's still so smart and amazing and she deserves this more than anyone he knows. She deserves to finally catch a break.

His words seem to cast her out of her reverie. "MOM!" she half-shrieks, half-screams, and he can hear a set of stilettos clicking up the steps at a rapid pace.

"Honey, I've told you a million times not to yell in the house. If you have something to sa-"

"Look," Quinn interrupts, practically shoving the papers at her mother, and smiles around where her teeth are catching her bottom lip. She looks radiant.

Without warning, the older woman bursts into silent tears, still reading the letter, grip on it so tight her knuckles are blanching, as if it might disappear if she lets go.

"Oh, Quinnie," is all she says, but the words carry so much weight. Puck feels like he's interrupting a personal moment, but Quinn wraps her arm around him tighter when he makes to leave. He sighs softly, voicing his defeat, and winds his own arm back around her slim waist, watching as his girlfriend's mom cries and his girlfriend beams and there's an emotion inside him he can't describe because it's all so _much_.

He wants this. He _needs_ this.

He also knows that he can't have it.

Not yet.

…

She's going to Georgetown. It's official. He's so, so proud of her for making something of herself. He's also exhausted; pretending takes so much work and effort that he can't give if everything is going to crumble in the end anyways. He isn't dense enough to think that this whole ordeal will be easy to get through, but he's clever enough to know that if they try, they have a chance. She won't give up four years of blood, sweat, and tears that were all expended in an effort to get as far away from this place as possible. He won't give up three years of trying to catch _her_.

This is exactly why he finds himself face to face with her in an empty hallway when they should be out at lunch; she's leaning against a locker and he's got his arms crossed, watching, waiting for her to make the first move in a conversation that promises to be a difficult one.

She lets out a shaky breath. "First semester's almost over."

"Yeah," he mumbles, scuffing his shoe on the cheap linoleum tile. It's durable, but almost too durable, as if it's only purpose is too exist. It isn't pretty. It isn't even all that functional, but it endures.

He knows the feeling.

"I'm going to D.C. in the summer," she tells him, eyes downcast so that her lashes brush her cheeks, so long that they cast shadows in the fluorescent lights. Is it wrong for him to hate the way she says 'DC,' as if she's already a native, as if she's lived there her whole life? As if a part of her won't be left in Lima when she leaves?

"I know." He swallows thickly. "You…you know I want to come with you, right? 'Cause we can do this. We totally can." He builds confidence as he continues, voice growing stronger with each word, eyes lighting up and he knows there's unhidden honesty written across his features because every syllable he's uttering is as true as a ringing note in the air, he can _hear _it. "I'll come, get a job, pay the rent. We could get an apartment and then a house and I could paint the fence some crazy color, and you'd say you hate it but secretly love it. We could go the whole nine yards, with the two perfect kids and the one-and-a-half dogs and the crazy Mom-van I know you'll want. We could do it, Quinn. Just give it a chance."

She's openly crying by this point, tears falling slowly down the planes of her face, over sculpted cheekbones and tight lips and a quivering chin. She's always been a pretty crier; he's never been good with tears.

And suddenly, it's like a light is shining on him, because she's opening her mouth to speak and no words are coming, no sounds besides the tearful laugh that equates to joy in its purest form. Her small smile and short nods are all he needs to see before she's in his arms, and he vaguely thinks they might be moving but he can't be sure, because within seconds their lips are fused; he can't get enough of her because maybe, just maybe, something in his life will go the way he expected it to.

…

The idea of moving to the East Coast and actually moving to the East Coast are two very different things. To start, his mom isn't very happy with him.

"Noah, what if she breaks your heart?" When he starts to shake his head she cuts in again, "I'm just being practical. What if she falls on love with someone else? Hm? Is it really worth it to uproot your entire life for a girl?"

"She's worth it," he tells her firmly, and he believes it, every word, "I love her."

His mother's face softens as she looks at her oldest child. "I know. I just don't want you to get hurt. It's my job."

"I know," he relents. He nearly adds a thank you, feels the wisps of it on his tongue, but bites it back. He isn't good with words. He never has been. When she walks away a moment later with an idle pat to his head, though, he feels something like regret for the first time in months.

…

Winter break comes far too soon, reminding them that their year is halfway done, that they're halfway to college, that they're halfway out of McKinley forever (because none of the Glee kids would be stupid enough to come back and teach in a place like this). There's a dusting of snow when he wakes up, shivering, and the sun is far too bright when it reflects off of the hood of his car. He'll never tell anyone, but Puck's the definition of a morning person (and a night person, really. He doesn't discriminate as long as it equates to little sleep). Shrugging on a coat, he makes it all the way to the front seat of his car before realizing his phone and wallet are still sitting on the counter. _I'll come back,_ he thinks, and pulls out of his driveway before the sun pulls out from behind translucent sheets of cloud. The heater in his old truck whines and the radio blares cheerily; he stares stoically ahead at the expanse of grey before him.

He doesn't look back.

…

"Puckerman! Haven't seen you around in a while. Where's your arm candy?" jeers Chad from behind the counter.

"Don't talk about her like that," he warns, words tenser than they should be as they bite through the greasy scent of over-processed snack foods, and his eyes flash in a way that must be intimidating because Chad immediately shrinks away, holding his hands up in mock surrender.

"Hey, it's cool bro. The usual, then?"

Puck grunts an affirmative. "On the house," smiles the barely-legal adult, passing the coffee with two extra shots of espresso across the slick tile with a practiced flick of the wrist, and Puck suddenly remembers that he's broke, and this was possibly the worst place he could've come.

He needed the familiarity, though, needed it like he needs air because if he's going to leave Lima, he's doing it on his own terms. The town itself sucks objectively, he knows that, but when you're born and raised somewhere you tend to get a little biased. When he'd walked into the 7-11, he hadn't seen a minimart; instead, he'd seen a little boy running ahead of his exasperated mother, grabbing a Double Gulp and filling it to the brim with Mountain Dew that could keep him awake for days; he'd seen summer air and ice-cold breaths and dreams that had yet to be shattered; he'd seen a happier side to his dismal childhood. He gulps down the drink, feeling it scorch his throat, and smiles around the next swallow. It tastes like warmth in its most basic essence, like steam and joy and sleepless nights.

When he turns to leave, Chad's _see ya, man, don't be stranger!_ is lost in the whipping of the wind, so loud Puck can't hear himself think, can't hear himself say (with more confidence than he's ever truly had) that he might actually be able to get out of this place after all.

…

_Merry Christmas Eve!_ come the messages, and he rolls his eyes. You'd think that after practically adopting him as a brother the club would think about his religious preferences for a moment. But this is Glee, and people here are as oblivious as anywhere else, they're just more perceptive, more meddling, more tightly-knit than any other group he's ever met.

_Are you getting them too?_ This text is unexpected, and for a second he wonders why the slight boy even asked him in the first place. Couldn't he just talk to Berry? By the time he works this out and has fingers poised to type back, though, another message lights up his inbox. _They mean well, you know._

_Yeah, yeah. Doesn't make it any less annoying._

_The only parts of this holiday worth keeping are the gifts and the cookies._

_Totally. The songs are crap._

_I'm so sick of them I actually hid Finn's i-Pod. He was blasting Frosty the Snowman at inhumane levels the other day._

Puck's about to text back a witty retort (probably one involving a roast of his best friend) when he realizes that he and Kurt are acting like they're far, far closer than they actually are. It's disconcerting, how easy the kid is to talk to when he isn't spewing laconic, defensive remarks that are more transparent than he'd ever admit to being.

Suddenly, there's another vibration from the device. He opens it to find a message from Finn.

_Hey man, wanna come over? Kurt keeps hitting me with his rolling pin when I try to sing Christmas songs._

Puck replies, _Why would I help you? I'm Jewish_, even as he grabs his keys off of the rack and guns up the engine, beginning the seven-mile trek he knows by heart to visit a friend he doesn't.

…

"Hey Puck, haven't seen you around lately. Finn's in the living room with the X-box set up," Burt informs him with a clap on the back, hand firm and fatherly on his shoulder. He waits a moment before telling him that _actually, I was here to see Kurt_, _too _and revels in the feeling of a male figure to care about him. He'd heard about the legendary Burt Hummel from several different sources, but after the wedding he'd experienced the man himself.

"Kurt?" he asks incredulously, "All right, he's up in his room. Don't blame me if he kicks you out, though."

"He won't," smirks Puck, taking the worn stairs two at a time as confidence radiates from every step the way it always has, leaving a thoroughly confused man in his wake. The light pours in from the side window, tinged nearly blue with the icy clouds, and he shivers involuntarily.

He stops in front of the door to what must be the countertenor's room, what with the silver chrome handle and the elegantly scripted backside of a _Do Not Disturb_ sign. The effect is enough to fill him with enough doubt to confuse him, because Puck is never nervous, never. Finally, he opens the door (_you're being ridiculous, you used to toss this kid in a dumpster, why are you nervous?) _and it slams against the wall: the bang of it is enough to force clear glass eyes to zero in on the intruder.

"Puck? What are you- you realize I was kidding, right? Finn turned off the music ten minutes ago in favor of playing some bloody war game that I don't understand the appeal of. He's in the living room."

"I know."

"Then why are you up here?"

"Can't two bros chill without it being weird?"

"I'd answer yes if it weren't for the fact that you used to terrorize me and we don't talk outside of school (or within it, for that matter) nearly enough to be considered 'bros.' You can't blame me for questioning your motives."

"Guess I can't."

…

"Seriously, do you spend all your time decorating this place? It's like a shrine to…to I don't even know what. But it's kind of creeping me out."

"No, I don't spend all my time on my room. But I do actually put effort into it, unlike most people. I swear, you're such a _boy_."

"And you're not?"

"I prefer the term gentleman."

"Whatever, Hummel. I still think that poster of Lady Gaga is freaky. Her eyes are following me. Is that another trick or something?"

"Oh no, that one's real."

…

Two hours later, he's sitting between the stepbrothers, pizza in one hand, soda in the other, and he's never been in a stranger situation. Two people he never dreamed he'd get back after doing such horrible things. For the first time in ages, he feels forgiven, feels like he might not be such a deadbeat after all.

His first thought is to call Quinn.

His second is to turn his phone off and enjoy the rest of the game in peace, relishing in the sense of family during what little time he has before reality swoops in and shatters the fragile glass he's hiding behind.

True to character, he chooses option 2.

…

Puck will remember the night of December 31st as a dizzying blur, a spotlight, fireflies on the front porch and tacky decorations like neon signs pointing here, to this place, the place they'll inevitably come back to one day. When he pulls up to pick up Quinn, he swears his breath is gone, and he knows on a base level that he'll never get used to her, to seeing her in new ways.

She waves to him, smile radiant – it's brighter than the dress she's wearing, and if anything should be a compliment it's that; whenever it moves and catches the light he sees a thousand brilliant points of gold that transform her into something like the sun, a star, a beacon directing him home.

_Oh,_ he thinks. _Home._ Because this is that big epiphany moment people talk about, this is the moment that will change him. He can feel it now, rearranging his perspective until he's squarely facing her, and he opens his eyes for the first time. What Puck will remember is a shock of green behind that smile and that curve of her lips he can't get enough of, a hazel swelling of warmth, a breeze that chills, a wave. There are no fireworks, no fanfares, no flashing lights. All he feels is a sweeping sense of _this is right_, and honestly? That's more than good enough for him.

"You look hot," he blurts the second she gets within hearing distance, and immediately berates himself; she doesn't look hot, she looks stunning, beautiful, incredible: all words that were banned from his vocabulary the second Noah became Puck, all words that actually involve _feelings _and things he could never afford without giving up part of himself.

She rolls her eyes, "Thanks, I think."

He's about to say something, anything, when he's interrupted by a call from Quinn's porch. "Quinn, sweetheart? What time will you be back?"

"I told you, Mom, we'll be back in the morning. If I'm not back by noon, call me!" She heaves a long-suffering the sigh that colors the around him a deep, rich maroon, and he watches, just watches, as this girl flips his world again. She slams the passenger door behind her and he revs the engine; they both feel the vibrations coming off of the dashboard as clearly as if they're speaking, a silent thrum that pulses with the beats of their hearts. They sit, connected by an engine that's on its last legs and gives himself a moment to smile.

When people talk about love, they romanticize it. But when people experience it?

They're dragged violently back down to earth (because love isn't heaven and it never will be) and sometimes, sometimes, they learn that the best things come from the worst things, and that two broken people can, on occasion, come together to make a whole.

…

"So I was looking at apartments the other day." His heart is beating far too loud, she must be able to hear it, she must be.

"Oh," she says quietly, and that's all.

…

He taps against the steering wheel, staring at the taillights of the cars ahead of him dully. The darkness seems to lower the aperture on the lenses of his eyes; the lines blur and twist until the black plane before him is full of lines of lights that leave trails where they've been.

…

"Well look who finally showed up! Were you guys 'distracted?'" pries Santana, raising a tacky plastic cup of one form of alcohol or another – it's all the same to her – and throwing a wink their way that's so obnoxious she can't possibly be sober.

In response, Puck grabs a drink of his own, takes a swig (but only one) and grins, "Let's party."

…

Puck's tolerance for alcohol is pretty legendary. That said, he also enjoys seeing how far he can push it before he ends up totally hammered and drops everything, past or future, that could possibly interrupt the present.

When he grabs drink number two, though, a slender hand grabs his wrist, anchoring him, and when green meets hazel in a silent _remember last time? _he re-thinks it all.

"Here, drink this," she murmurs, holding out something that looks suspiciously like a wine cooler. He raises an eyebrow. Remember this?

"It's not alcohol," she informs him quietly, "It's punch. I used to bring them to post-game parties. Hangovers give me migraines." And he knows the last part is a lie, he knows it, but he'd be hard pressed to argue with her right now because he's taking a sip of this drink and he's falling back into the past.

She blinks up at him earnestly, and all hints of doubt wash away.

She nods her head, he falls, and the world spins madly on.

…

"You-"

"Alcohol is dangerous," she cuts in quietly, but that wasn't his question. Not by a long shot.

He has to respond to this somehow, but his brain is still short-circuiting and rewiring and trying to figure out if this was actually his fault, if he created this fear within her with one night that he'd still name as the best of his life.

"Okay."

…

(He's not sure he's okay.)

…

"Spin the bottle!" someone calls wildly, and Puck's pretty sure it came from the spastic ball of energy awkwardly bopping around in the corner. "Let's do it!" and the boy drags the 't' until it's a hiss, wisps of it flitting through the crowd.

"Blaine, are you really sure that's such a great idea?" Kurt admonishes gently, but everyone knows that they're wrapped around each other's little fingers. Puck gives it about three seconds, and just like he knew would happen, Kurt plops down next to his boyfriend tiredly, rolling his eyes and letting a small smirk grace his features. "Fine. But I'm exempt from kissing Finn. We live in the same house; that's just creepy."

"Yeah," Finn nods hastily, eyes widening comically at the thought of having to kiss someone who's practically family.

The entire group settles into a rough interpretation of a circle, and someone grabs an empty bottle from the floor. Puck's not sure, but he thinks it was Brittany who spun first, and he sees her Cheshire grin when it lands on Santana. _Rigged,_ is the first word to float through his mind, but he's actually relatively lucid thanks to Quinn's fake wine coolers and wonders how he missed such an obvious attraction. He's distracted again when it's Quinn's elegant wrist spinning the ratty, amber glass and laughs when it lands on Kurt, who makes a face (_No offense, honey, it's just…you're a girl) _and leans in for a quick peck.

"My turn," decides Rachel imperiously, and then practically jumps into a dazed Finn's lap. Puck's happy he has at least a sip of liquid courage in him because he's not sure he could handle any of this completely sober.

_Props to Mike Chang,_ he thinks, because DD'ing on New Year's has got to be the worst gig in the history of this universe.

The lights seem to dim for a moment, he swears they do (_it was just a second, really, they did), _and the snow outside is still falling and the wind is still whipping but inside it's warm. The fire flickers gold and red, and he smiles as the bottle lands on him.

Santana's devil-red lips curve wickedly, and he thinks it again (_rigged_), but he leans in all the same. She's familiar, and certainly knows what she's doing, but he can't help but feel joy bubble up inside of him at knowing for certain that she isn't Quinn, will never be Quinn, will never compare to Quinn.

Quinn's _it_ for him. He just wonders why it took so long for him to finally figure it out.

…

"Ten!" comes the cry, and he opens his eyes slowly to the sound of Rachel Berry's shout; it's loud, even for her, and his head throbs a bit at the volume.

_Nine!_ He's sitting up, feeling the stiff couch rise with him, and there's a dull ache in his back. He looks to his right and smiles at the flash of blonde he sees. "Quinn," he mumbles, "we're counting down."

_Eight!_ "Hm?" she asks, bleary-eyed, and he laughs.

"Seven," he whispers into her ear.

"Six," she replies, catching on quickly, eyes dancing as she fully wakes up.

"Five."

"Four."

"Three."

"Two."

"One!" The lights turn off suddenly, and he laughs as her lips meet his. It must be a picture perfect moment, really, but no one has a camera, the lights are too dark, the angle's all wrong, and maybe that's the point of it all. Here, in Lima, people turn dull parties like this into magic, into beauty, and that's the incredible thing. That's the only reason he'd ever want to stay.

There's no place like Lima, he knows that better than anyone. But if he's going to get out of here, he swears (he _swears_) he can never hesitate.

…

An e-mail:

To the New Directions,

Hi everyone! As I'm sure you're all aware, Regionals are coming fast, and this year more than any other we need to prepare. While our specialty seems to be last-minute song writing extravaganzas that aren't even in the near vicinity of being efficient, this year I believe we need to try a different approach: actually planning our performances.

The first meeting will be held Thursday at lunch in the choir room.

I'd make it mandatory, but I'm sure you all remember what 12th place feels like.

I hope to see you there,

Mr. Schuester

PS: For every person that tries to shirk responsibility I'm adding one Journey song to our set-list.

…

The choir room, Puck will come to remember, was never really about the club itself, or about singing, or about performing. It's more of a setting, a backdrop, a yellow sheet outlining the most tangible moments of his life so far. And when the room's a sheet, the people aren't people but lights behind it, silhouetting shape after shape across the bright expanse.

"Is everyone here?" asks Mr. Schue.

In a rare moment of synchronicity, not one of them needs to turn and look to reply, "yes."

…

Puck's struggling today, trying to find his voice, but he's never been good with words, never, and people should know this by now. Every time Mr. Schue shakes his head disapprovingly at Puck's blank paper he wants to yell that he's trying, he swears, it's just hard for him, okay?

He looks over to see that Quinn's on her third sheet of paper, loosely crumpled balls littering the space around her. He stands up, admitting defeat to the stationary in his hand, and walks over to where his girlfriend has again begun to write feverishly.

"You dropped something," he smirks, holding up one of the discarded verses.

She colors. "It's not any good."

"I'm sure it's better than anything I could come up with."

"Maybe," she considers, and his eyes widen in mock offense.

"Can I read it?" he finally asks, toying with the paper in his hand. He's dying of curiosity (not that he'd say anything). She shoots him a slightly exasperated look and shakes her head, more firmly this time.

He's disappointed, yes. He loves his girlfriend, yes. He respects her, yes. But none of these things stop him from slipping the ball in his pocket the moment she looks away.

…

_If I were to fly away_

_Would you follow me?_

_Would you pack up everything you own_

_And everything you see?_

_Would you cut ties with all your friends_

_The only family you know?_

_Would you follow me into the unknown?_

…

_It's not any good_, she'd said. They aren't any good at all.

But him? He begs to differ.

…

What could they _mean_?

…

By Monday, he's tired of trying to figure it out. _She'll tell me if it's important_, he thinks. Until then, the looks from Mr. Schue get more common, and he gets more frustrated at his complete inability to string together words and phrases.

_This sucks,_ he tries. But he can't even come up with an appropriate rhyme for _that_.

…

The song gets written piece by piece, and by the time they finish he wants to start a bonfire just to burn these horrible rhyming dictionaries and throw the ashes at whosever idea it was to use them in the first place.

It's a little bit country and a little bit rock and roll, and it fits them as a club excellently. It's upbeat, good to dance to, the lyrics are meaningful.

His voice isn't present (not one bit), but he's used to being swept off to the side. In response, he writes himself a kickass guitar solo.

Mr. Schue finally nods, and it feels like he's finally getting somewhere.

…

"Are you nervous?"

"A little." She brushes some hair behind her ear, tweaks the skirt of her dress, checks her makeup in the reflection of her phone.

"We've got this in the bag."

She smiles (it wavers, he can see it shaking) and nods her head. "Yeah. We do."

They get the ten-minute warning, and he looks up, looks around to see exactly what he expected. Rachel is pacing furiously, no doubt running lyrics by the way her lips are moving. Finn is kneeling nearby, eyes closed. Kurt and Mercedes are talking about some new fall collection, but neither of them has stopped fidgeting the entire time. Tina and Brittany are harmonizing quietly; Mike and Artie are both silent and stoic as rocks. Santana is flitting from person to person, alternating between commiserating and insulting depending on her lightning-fast mood changes. Puck and Quinn are in the center of it all, and he's not sure what they're doing. He has no idea.

"And now, the New Directions!"

He takes a deep breath, squeezes Quinn's hand, and picks up his guitar. The curtains open and the lights bear down like a pulse of energy; all of a sudden he can feel his heartbeat pick up. He opens his mouth to sing (and do they sing). The audience is non-existent right now, nothing matters, nothing, and he can see a flash of blonde now and again to remind him of where he is. She keeps him grounded.

Voices ring out like pops of confetti, bright against the shadow of the crowd.

When they finally finish, he can't hear the applause. He can't hear the announcement that they won. Nothing is real except for the breathless laughter into his chest. "We made it," she giggles, "We did it."

"We did," he tells her. But neither of them are talking about the competition.

...

**Review?**


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